Page 51 of Groomsman to Groom

She’s beautiful. Not in the manufactured way, but in the quiet, unexpected moments like this—absorbed in discovery, unaware of being watched. I raise my hand instinctively, muscle memory from years behind a camera, wanting to capture thismoment. But my camera is gone, abandoned on that balcony when nothing mattered except reaching her in time.

“What were you like as a child?” The question escapes me before I can consider it, prompted by the stone child statue and my sudden, intense desire to know everything about her that exists beyond the confines of this show.

She looks back at me, surprise flickering across her features before a small smile takes its place. “Constantly in motion.” She returns to my side. “Literally. We moved nine times before I graduated high school.”

“Nine?” I try to imagine it—packing and unpacking a life over and over, always the new kid, always starting fresh. “Military family?”

“No.” She guides us to a stone bench beneath a sprawling oak tree, its leaves rustling gently overhead. “My mom was a single parent. My dad left when I was two, so it was just her, my sister, and me against the world. Mom kept searching for better jobs, better opportunities, and cheaper rent. We’d stay somewhere for six months, maybe a year, then pack everything into our beat-up Corolla and start fresh somewhere new.”

I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch. “That sounds tough.”

“It was.” She looks up at the stars visible through the oak’s branches. “Always being the outsider, never having roots. But in some ways, it was good preparation for screenwriting. I learned to observe, to pick up on social dynamics quickly, to imagine different lives and possibilities.” A smile touches her lips unexpectedly. “But there was this one library in North Carolina—we lived there for almost a year when I was twelve. It became my sanctuary.” Her eyes light up with the memory. “That’s where I found it.”

“Found what?”

“The book that changed everything.The Scarlet Phoenix. It was this old fantasy novel tucked away on a bottom shelf, probably published in the seventies judging by the yellowed pages and the slightly psychedelic cover art.” She laughs softly. “But the story... it was about this girl who kept losing everything—her home, her family, her sense of belonging. And then she discovers she has this incredible power to be reborn, like a phoenix, gathering strength from every loss, every hardship.”

I watch her face as she speaks, the way animation replaces melancholy, her hands moving expressively in the moonlight.

“I read that book six times before we moved again,” she continues. “And when we had to leave, I did something I’d never done before—I stole it.” She looks at me with a hint of mischief. “My first and only crime. I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”

“I won’t report you to the library police.”

“Appreciate that.” She nudges my shoulder playfully. “But that book... it gave me a framework for understanding my life. The constant moving, the starting over—I wasn’t just losing things. I was gathering strength, collecting experiences, building myself from the ashes of each departure. I started writing my own stories after that. Creating worlds I could take with me wherever we went.”

“And now you write for television.”

“Now I write for television,” she says. “Though I still disappear sometimes when I’m on deadline. There’s this cabin I rent in the mountains, completely off the grid. No internet, no phone service.”

“That sounds like my nightmare,” I say. “I’d be checking my phone every five minutes, convinced August needed me.”

“It’s terrifying at first. But then it becomes liberating. Just me and the story, no distractions. It’s where I do my best work.”

I try to imagine her there—alone in a mountain cabin, surrounded by nothing but trees and her own imagination. It’sa solitary image, and yet it fits what I’ve come to understand about her. Brielle builds worlds from words, creates connections through stories. Her isolation isn’t about disconnection but about finding a deeper way to connect.

“What about you?” she asks, turning those perceptive eyes on me. “What was little Hayes like?”

The question brings a rueful smile to my face. “Quieter than August, unsurprisingly. Less confident, for sure.” I lean back against the bench, memories surfacing like bubbles in still water. “My parents split when I was six. Dad remarried almost immediately—that’s how I met Skye, actually. She was my stepmother for a while.”

“I know. She told me that.” Brielle’s eyes widen. “That’s nuts!”

“She was my father’s second wife. There have been several since.”

“Wow.” She processes this. “That’s... complicated.”

“Family usually is.” I pluck a fallen leaf from the bench between us, turning it over in my fingers. “Dad wasn’t around much after the divorce. He’d show up for birthdays sometimes, take me for a weekend here and there, but mostly it was just my mom and me.”

“Like August,” Brielle says softly.

I nod, the parallel not lost on me. “Except August lost his mother, not his father. And I’d cut off my right arm before I’d be as absent as my dad was.” The fierceness in my voice surprises even me. “That’s why the show has been so hard. Being away from August, missing weeks of his life. If it weren’t for my mother helping out...”

“She sounds amazing.”

“She is. Strongest person I know. She raised me alone while working full-time, never missed a school event, taught me everything important.” I smile, thinking of how she’s doing thesame for August now. “I rely on her too much, probably. But single parenthood is...”

“Challenging?” Brielle offers.

“Terrifying,” I correct. “Especially after—” I stop, something catching in my throat. We’ve ventured into territory I rarely discuss, even with people I’ve known for years, let alone a woman I’ve actually spent so little time with. Yet there’s something about Brielle, about the quiet darkness around us, about the lingering shock of almost losing her today, that pushes me toward honesty.

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